"I suppose she meant to keep her?"
"Why, of course."
"And the father didn't care?"
"Well, I believe he did," said Daphne unwillingly. "Yes, that was very sad. He was quite devoted to her."
"And you think that's all right?" Barnes looked at his companion, smiling.
"Well, of course, it was a pity," she said, with fresh impatience; "I admit it was a pity. But then, why did she ever marry him? That was the horrible mistake."
"I suppose she thought she liked him."
"Oh, it was he who was so desperately in love with her. He plagued her into doing it."
"Poor devil!" said Barnes heartily. "All right, we're coming."
The last words were addressed to General Hobson, waving to them from the kitchen-garden. They hurried on to join the curator, who took the party for a stroll round some of the fields over which George Washington, in his early married life, was accustomed to ride in summer and winter dawns, inspecting his negroes, his plantation, and his barns. The grass in these Southern fields was already high; there were shining fruit-trees, blossom-laden, in an orchard copse; and the white dogwood glittered in the woods.